(English Translation Below)

Dag 69: Nouadhibou na Bir Gandouz, Wes-Sahara
 
Ons vertrek met sonop. Die see-bries waai koel teen ons lywe. Maak mens bly dat jy op 'n motorfiets is en nie verskans binne die kapsule van 'n kar nie. Met die lae hoek van die son wat net-net oor die landskap loer, het alles skaduwees. Selfs die klippe. Die riffels oor die sand. Die briesie se rimpels oor die see hier aan die stil kant van die Nouadhibou-skiereiland.
 
Die grenspos verloop vlot. Veral aan die Morocco kant. Dis ons mees georganiseerde grensposervaring nóg. Let wel: Moenie die naam Wes-Sahara by die Morocco grens noem nie. Moet ook nie daardie naam-wat-nie-genoem-mag-word-nie enige plek op jou dokumente of jou reisplan laat verskyn nie. Morocco erken nie Wes-Sahara as 'n onafhanklike land nie. Maar hulle wil onafhanklik wees en min of meer die hele wêreld, insluitend die Afrika Unie en Suid-Afrika, ondersteun hulle pleidooi.
 
Terug op die pad tref die skoon oopheid ons weer. Hier waar ons ry is dit 'n strook van klipperige woestynveld afgewissel met strepe sand. Alles dieselfde kameelkleur. Bossies hier en daar. Dit strek sover mens kan sien na die see se kant toe. Aan die ander kant, so vyfhonderd meter land-in, grens hierdie klipperige kameelstrook aan die lakenwit sandduine van die Sahara. Dit terg mens. Want jou oë wil net nog meer daarvan sien, maar nou-en-dan is die duine te ver. Dan weer sigbaar. Dan heelwat nader, vol belofte. Dan weer weg.
 
Skielik draai die pad reguit see se kant toe, oor 'n rantjie, en 'n wal seelug tref ons vol op die bors. Vogtig en koel en nimmereindig skoon. Ou Psalms wel onwillekeurig in my op. Dis onmoontlik om deur Afrika te ry en nie oomblikke van intense bewustheid van die Onbegryplike te beleef nie. Die Kalahari. Die Kongo oerwoud en rivier. Die Atlantiese Oseaan. En nou die Sahara.
 
Bir Gandouz kan seker nie rerig 'n dorp genoem word nie. Dis 'n klompie halfgeboude beton-huise, tussen die klippe en gras en brokke beton van geboue wat reeds gesterf het.
 
Ons stop by die Barbas Hotel. Kry vir Ian. Dit lyk of hy besig is om die malaria te wen. Ons ontmoet ook vir Jamie. 'n Britse argitek op 'n Royal Enfield wat Suid ry. Hy't gedink hy gaan by Portugal stop. Maar toe hy weer sien is hy in Morocco. En nou trek die magiese kontinent hom al verder in.
 
Day 69: Nouadhibou to Bir Gandouz, Western Sahara
 
We depart at sunrise. The sea breeze cool against our bodies. It makes one grateful to be on a motorcycle and not enclosed within the capsule of a car. With the low angle of the sun just peeking over the landscape, everything has a shadow. Even the rocks. The ripples over the sand. The wrinkles of the breeze over the sea here on the quiet side of the Nouadhibou Peninsula.
 
The border crossing goes smoothly. Especially on the Moroccan side. It's our most organized border crossing experience yet. Note: Do not mention the name Western Sahara at the Moroccan border. Also, do not let that name-that-must-not-be-mentioned appear anywhere on your documents or your itinerary. Morocco does not recognize Western Sahara as an independent country. But they want to be independent, and more or less the whole world, including the African Union and South Africa, support their plea.
 
Back on the road, the clean openness strikes us again. Where we ride, it's a strip of stony desert alternating with stripes of sand. All the same camel colour. Shrubs here and there. It stretches as far as you can see towards the ocean. On the other side, about five hundred meters inland, this rocky camel strip borders the sheet-white sand dunes of the Sahara. It teases you. Because your eyes just want to see more of it, but now and then the dunes are just too far. Then visible again. Then much closer, full of promise. Then gone again.
 
Suddenly the road turns straight towards the sea, over a little ridge, and a breeze of sea air hits us right in the chest. Moist and cool and endlessly fresh. Old Psalms involuntarily well up in me. It's impossible to drive through Africa and not experience moments of intense awareness of the Incomprehensible. The Kalahari. The Congo rainforest and river. The Atlantic Ocean. And now the Sahara.
 
Bir Gandouz can't really be called a town. It's a cluster of half-built concrete houses, scattered among the rocks, grass, and fragments of buildings that have died already.
 
We stop at the Barbas Hotel. Look for Ian. It seems like he's overcoming the malaria. We also meet Jamie. A British architect on a Royal Enfield. Riding south. He thought he was going to stop in Portugal. But before he knew it, he was in Morocco. And now the magical continent is drawing him in.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 68: Nouadhibou
 
Ons kom tot stilstand. Nêrens heen om te ry vandag nie. Net petrol ingooi. En blog skryf. En lees.
 
Dis donkervroeg maar ons is altwee wakker. Besig met ons eie gedagtes. Luister na die muezzin wat die oggendgebed oor die moskee se luidsprekers sing. 'n Vrede wat oor die dorp kom hang.
 
Dan pieng De Witt se selfoon. Ian, die Ierse vriend wie ons op die pad ontmoet en mee in St. Louis gekuier het, het malaria. Hy is in Morocco. Ons sal môre by hom aangaan om seker te maak hy is oraait.
 
Later, toe ons terugkom met ons tenks vol petrol, is die hekwag nie dadelik daar om vir ons oop te maak nie. Dan kom hy. Gebedsmatjie in sy hand. Hy maak vriendelik oop. Ons ry in en parkeer. Dan gooi hy sy matjie weer oop, sekuur in Mecca se rigting, en gaan voort met sy middag-gebed. Ons voel sleg dat ons hom gesteur het.
 
Die aand lees ek verder aan James Hollis se 'Finding Meaning In the Second Half of Life'. Hy betreur die vervlakking wat die moderne verbruikerskultuur teweeggebring het. Die wegstroop van alles wat 'onwetenskaplik' is, het ons ook van ons ontsag vir die misterieuse ontneem, sê hy. Ons slawe van ons sensoriese prikkels gemaak.
 
Later, toe die muezzin se gesang vir oulaas oor die koel seedorpie sweef, en honderde gebedsmatjies Mecca se kant toe neergesit word, lê ons en uitsien na môre se ry Morocco toe. Die woestyn van legendes wat voorlê. In oneindige misterie.
 
Day 68: Nouadhibou
 
We come to a halt. Nowhere to ride to today. Just fill up with petrol. And write the blog. And read.
 
It's still early and dark, but we're both awake. Engaged in our own thoughts. Listening to the muezzin singing the morning call to prayer over the mosque's loudspeakers. A peacefulness hanging over the village.
 
Then De Witt's phone pings. Ian, the Irish friend we met on the road and spent time with in St. Louis, has malaria. He's in Morocco. We'll go see him tomorrow to make sure he's okay.
 
Later, when we return with our tanks full of petrol, the gatekeeper isn't immediately there to open for us. Then he comes. Prayer mat in his hand. He opens kindly. We drive in and park. Then he unfolds his mat again, precisely facing Mecca, and continues with his afternoon prayer. We feel bad for disturbing him.
 
In the evening, I continue reading James Hollis's 'Finding Meaning In the Second Half of Life.' He laments the superficiality brought about by our modern consumer culture. The stripping away of everything deemed 'unscientific' has also robbed us of our reverence for the mysterious, he says. Made us slaves to the stimulation of our senses.
 
Later, as the muezzin's chant floats over the cool seaside town for the last time today, and hundreds of prayer mats are laid down facing Mecca, we lie and look forward to tomorrow's ride to Morocco. The desert of legends that lies ahead. In infinite mystery.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 67: Nouakchott na Nouadhibou
 
Die Sahara is wyd. Dit trek jou in. Vul jou met ontsag. Ons het omtrent 500km om te ry vandag op 'n reguit lyn teerpad deur die woestyn. Hier en daar 'n duin wat in die nag oor die pad begin skuif het. Heelpad 'n laken sand wat dwars oor die pad waai.
 
Skielik maak die landskap 'n vallei voor ons oop. 'n Uitgestrekte see van sandduine waarin ons neerdaal. Die wind waai dat die motorfietse skeeflê en ons valhelms ons sonbrille skuins teen ons koppe druk. Môre gaan ons nekke styf wees. Gelukkig is dit nie te warm vandag nie, net 35 grade Celcius.
 
Halfpad oppad Nouadhibou toe is 'n nedersetting waar ons petrol kan kry. Die geboutjies is soos dobbelsteentjies in die sand gestrooi. Plat en vaal met sand teen die mure opgewaai. Donkies en kamele orals. Ons sien 'n petrolstasie, so 200 meter van die teerpad af in die diksand. Ry in soontoe. Val nie om nie. Geen petrol. Terug teerpad toe. Nog 'n stasie 'n entjie verder aan die oorkant van die pad. Weer die diksand-vet-oopmaak maneuvre. Weer geen petrol. Eers by die vierde stasie waar ons stop kry ons petrol. By die enigste pomp wat nog oorhet.
 
Die laaste 200km is sonder duine. Net 'n witwye niksheid. En die wind wat deur mens se gedagtes kom waai. Eenvoud bring.
 
Day 67: Nouakchott to Nouadhibou
 
The Sahara is vast. It draws you in. Fills you with awe. We have about 500km to ride today on a straight-line asphalt road through the desert. Here and there a dune that has started to screep over the road during the night. A sheet of sand blowing across the road the entire way.
 
Suddenly, the landscape opens up a valley in front of us. An endless sea of sand dunes into which we descend. The wind blows, causing the motorcycles to lean, and our helmets press our sunglasses askew against our heads. Tomorrow, our necks will be stiff. Fortunately, it's not too hot today, just 35 degrees Celsius.
 
Halfway to Nouadhibou is a village where we can get petrol. The buildings are scattered like dices in the sand. Flat and faded with sand blown against the walls. Donkeys and camels everywhere. We see a petrol station about 200 meters from the asphalt road in the thick sand. We ride there without falling over. No petrol. Back to the asphalt road. Another station a bit further on the other side of the road. Again, the thick sand open-throttle-manoeuvre. Again, no petrol. Only at the fourth station where we stop, do we get petrol. At the only pump that is still working.
The last 200km is without dunes. Just a wide white nothingness. And the wind blowing through our thoughts. Bringing simplicity.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 66: Nogsteeds in Noakchott
 
Ons word genooi om by die TLC International School met die kinders te kom gesels oor ons reis. Oppad na die skool toe, soos wat ons nou die afgelope twee dae in Nouakchott gewoond geraak het, moet ons katvoet-ry want padreels word hier op 'n manier geinterpreteer wat ons nie verstaan nie. Dit kom neer op: Ry soos jy wil. Wat dit nog moeiliker maak, is die dik sand oral. Jy ry nou op 'n teerpad, draai af in 'n systraat wat van sandduin gemaak is, dan weer teerpad, dan weer diksand.
 
Nietemin, ons kom in een stuk by die skool aan en gesels 'n wyle met die skoolhoof en stigter voordat die kinders begin opdaag. Seker so 'n 100 van hulle. Graad 6 - 12. Ons sit agter 'n tafel in wat soos die kafeteria-saal lyk, en die kinders rondom tafels die res van die saal vol. Dit kyk en wys en giggel.
 
Faldi, ons kontak via die Suid-Afrikaanse ambassade, wie 'n onderwyser hier is, stel ons voor. Ons elkeen gee 'n kort inleiding oor ons agtergrond en ervaring van die reis, en nooi hulle uit om vrae te vra. Dis makliker om te weet waarop om te fokus as mense vrae vra. 'n Splitsekonde se 'sênou niemand vra iets nie' flits in ons verby, maar dan gaan al die hande omtrent gelyk op. Kleintjies en grotes. Seuns en meisies. Die seuns in T-hemde en sandale soos in enige Amerikaanse skool. Die meisies in veelkleurige hijabs. Wakker en gretig om te leer.
 
Het julle ooit verdwaal?
Geval en seergekry?
Wou mense julle ooit beroof of skade aandoen?
Watter emosies het julle ervaar tot dusver?
Hoe hou julle kop tussen al die geldeenhede van die verskillende lande?
As julle klaar is met die reis, na watter lande sou julle graag wil terugkom?
 
Die uur vlieg verby. 'n Dag van wag-vir-ons-grensoorgang het skielik 'n inspirerende wending geneem. Toe die sessie verby is drom die kinders om ons saam. Nog vrae. Een dogtertjie, seker so twaalf, kom staan by De Witt. Vra een vraag na die ander. Beïndruk hom geweldig met hoe sy dink.
 
Môre ry ons verder Noord. As alles goed gaan, sal ons altesaam omtrent 20 000km agter ons hê van Pretoria na Rotterdam. Dis verder as van London na Beijing. 'n Wêreld wat deur grootmense aanmekaargesit is en beheer word. Maar waarbinne die hoop en drome van kinders tog om hemelsnaam nie uitgedoof moet word nie. As ons tog net 'n bietjie na hulle wou luister.
 
Day 66: Still in Nouakchott
 
We are invited to speak about our journey at the TLC International School. On the way to the school, as we've become accustomed to over the past two days in Nouakchott, we must drive cautiously because traffic rules here are interpreted in a way that we don't grasp. It boils down to: Drive as you wish. What makes it even more challenging is the thick sand everywhere. You might be on an asphalt road, turn into a side street made of sand dune, then back to asphalt, then into deep sand again.
 
Nevertheless, we arrive at the school in one piece and chat for a while with the headmaster and founder before the children start to arrive. Around 100 of them, from grades 6 to 12. We sit behind a table in what looks like the cafeteria hall, and the children are seated at tables filling the rest of the hall. They look, point, and giggle.
 
Faldi, our contact via the South African embassy, who is a teacher here, introduces us. Each of us gives a brief introduction about our background and experience of the journey, inviting them to ask questions. It's easier to know what to focus on when people ask questions. For a split second, the thought flashes in us, 'Maybe no one will ask anything,' but then almost all the hands go up simultaneously. Little ones and big ones. Boys and girls. The boys in T-shirts and sandals like in any American school. The girls in colourful hijabs. Eager and keen to learn.
 
Have you ever gotten lost?
Fell and got hurt?
Have people ever tried to rob or harm you?
What emotions have you experienced so far?
How do you keep track among all the different currencies of the countries?
When you finish the journey, which countries would you like to come back to?
 
The hour flies by. A day of waiting for our border crossing has suddenly taken an inspiring turn. When the session is over, the children gather around us. More questions. One girl, maybe twelve, stands by De Witt. Asks one question after another. Impresses him immensely with her way of thinking.
 
Tomorrow, we continue north. If all goes well, we will have covered about 20,000 km from Pretoria to Rotterdam. That's farther than from London to Beijing. A world put together and controlled by adults. But within which the hopes and dreams of children should for heavens' sake not be extinguished. If only we would listen to them a little more.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 65: Nouakchott
 
Dit raak nou lank. En ons kan nie veel daaraan doen nie. Ons het só voorspoedig gevorder deur Ivoorkus, Guinea en Senegal dat ons heeltemal te vroeg is vir die inklok-datums op ons Morocco en Europa visums.
 
Ons staan laat op. Gaan eet laat ontbyt. Lê en lees. Ek voel nog flou van gister se dehidrasie. Later besluit ons om 'n barbier te soek om ons baarde te tem. Loop die dorp in. Hier en daar 'n vergete kar met pap wiele. Toegemis deur maande se voëls. Dit voel soos 'n Sondagmiddag in enige Karoo-dorp: Warm, stil en effens neerdrukkend.
 
Die barbier se winkel wil-wil uitmekaarval. Hy beduie in Frans en Arabies dat ons moet sit. 'n Verstandelik gestremde man kom van die straat af ingestap en kom sit reg langs ons. Begin gesels. Kliphard. In Engels met ons en dan in Arabies met die barbier. Die barbier laat hom begaan. Geduldig. Dan spring die man op en loop uit. Kom later terug met 'n bottel water vir my. Intussen beduie ek en De Witt met ons hande en gesigte in Afrikaans en Engels dat ons nie alles wil afgeskeer hê nie, net 'n bietjie korter en netjieser. Ek gaan sit en hoop vir die beste. Besef dadelik ons is in die hande van 'n meester.
 
Later vat ons ons nuwe aangesigte vir 'n spin na die koffiewinkel om die draai. Die eerste een in duisende kilometer. In Mauritanië is alkohol onwettig so mens drink koffie en tee en vars uitgedrukte sap en gaskoeldrank. En water.
 
Môre nog 'n hele dag van rond-sit en -dwaal voordat ons verder noord in Morocco se rigting ry. Dan twee nagte aan dié kant van die Morocco grens wag. Dan eers kan ons oor.
 
Dis asof 'n ou eggo weer vir ons wil weerklink: Vat. Dit. Rustig.
 
Day 65: Nouakchott
 
It's getting long now. And there's not much we can do about it. We've made such good progress through Ivory Coast, Guinea and Senegal, that we are way too early for the check-in dates on our visas for Morocco and Europe.
 
We wake up late. Have a late breakfast. Lie down and read. I still feel weak from yesterday's dehydration. Later, we decide to find a barber to tame our beards. We walk into town. Here and there, a forgotten car with flat tires. Covered by months of bird poo. It feels like a Sunday afternoon in any Karoo town: Warm, quiet, and slightly depressing.
 
The barber's shop looks like it's about to fall apart. He gestures in French and Arabic for us to sit. A mentally disabled man walks in from the street and sits right next to us. He starts talking. Very loudly. In English to us and then in Arabic to the barber. The barber lets him be. Patiently. Then the man jumps up and walks out. Comes back later with a bottle of water for me. Meanwhile, De Witt and I signal to the barber, with our hands and faces and in our best Afrikaans and English, that we don't want everything shaved off, just a bit shorter and neater. I sit and hope for the best. Immediately realize we are in the hands of a master.
 
Later, we take our new appearances for a spin to the coffee shop around the corner. The first one in thousands of kilometres. In Mauritania, alcohol is illegal, so you drink coffee and tea and freshly squeezed juice and soda. And water.
 
Tomorrow, another whole day of sitting and wandering before we head further north in the direction of Morocco. Then two nights waiting on this side of the Morocco border. Only then can we cross.
 
It's as if an old echo wants to remind us yet again: Take. It. Easy.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 63 en 64: St. Louis na Nouakchott, Mauritanië
 
Ons word wakker met vlinders op die maag. Daar's 'n grenspos wat voorlê, gevolg deur 'n lang stuk grondpad, en dan nog 170km teerpad tot by Noakchott. As die grenspos lank vat en die grondpad sleg is, gaan ons sukkel om voor donker daar te wees. Ons ry vandag saam met Ian die Ier. Hy het gisteraand met ons opgevang, sy tent langs ons motorfietse opgeslaan, en ons vermaak met sy stories oor motorfietsry deur die hele wêreld. Hy is tien jaar jonger as ons, maar 'n baie meer ervare motorfiets-toerder. Ons sien dit dadelik aan hoeveel ligter sy fiets gepak is.
 
Ons kom net ná 'n groep Europese motorfietsryers by die grens aan. Moet wag vir hulle papierwerk en stempels voordat ons kan deurgaan. Drie ure later is ons deur.
 
Dan die grondpad. Hardgebakte modderpad met sand hier en daar. Maar lekker om te ry. Ek sien De Witt en Ian brand om oop te maak, en sê hulle moet vooruit ry, ek verkies om my eie gemaklike pas te geniet. Die pad kronkel al langs die Mauritanië oewer van die Senegal rivier. Vleiland sover mens kan sien. Beeste, skape en donkies. 'n Kameel!
 
Ek raak só meegevoer dat ek die afdraai Noakchott toe heeltemal mis. Doodluiters oppad Rosso toe, die ander grenspos, 'n hele ent langs die rivier op. Naderhand pla iets my. Daar kom niemand van voor af aan nie? Vroeër was daar heeltyd Europeërs op groot motorfietse wat van voor af gekom het. Stofopgeskop het.
 
Ek stop. Moet in elk geval water drink. Dis 40 grade Celcius en die water is nie veel koeler nie. Haal my foon uit. Hy lui. Dis De Witt. Tjomma jy't verby die afdraai gery! Hy en Ian gaan 'n koelteboom soek ('n rare verskynsel in hierdie wêreld) en vir my wag. Ek draai om. Besef dat die manne wat geroep het netnou my nie probeer stop het vir geld nie, maar vir my wou sê dat ek daar moes gedraai het.
 
De Witt voel sleg dat hy nie vir my by die kruising gewag het nie. Toe hy dit besef en omdraai was ek egter reeds verby die verte in. Ek weet dis my eie fout dat ek nie self ook die kaart bestudeer het nie. In gemaklike afhanklikheid die dinkwerk aan hom en Ian oorgelaat het. 'n Goeie wekroep na wakker-wees vir my!
 
Ons het omtrent 'n uur verloor, maar die pad Nouakchott toe is mooi. Nou en dan 'n vinnige polisie-stop waar ons vir hulle 'n FICHE moet gee: 'n klein papiertjie met ons paspoort en voertuig-details op. Rooi sandduine weerskante van die pad die verte in. Kamele wat wild rondloop. 'n Dooie een hier reg langs die pad. Sanddorpies wat my aan die spookdorp Kolmanskop laat dink.
 
Ons kom heel betyds voor donker by Nouakchott aan. Verniet oor die tyd gekommer. Soos Ian gisteraand gesê het: In Europa het mense geld, maar nie tyd nie. Ook nie tyd vir mekaar nie. Maar hier in Afrika het mense nou wel nie geld nie, maar hulle het al die tyd in die wêreld. Vir mekaar.
 
Day 63 and 64: St. Louis to Nouakchott, Mauritania
 
We wake up with butterflies in our stomachs. There's a border post ahead, followed by a long stretch of dirt road, and then another 170km of asphalt to Nouakchott. If the border post takes long and the dirt road is bad, we'll struggle to get there before dark. Today, we ride with Ian the Irishman. He caught up with us last night, pitched his tent next to our motorcycles, and entertained us with his stories of motorcycle touring around the world. He is ten years younger than us but a much more experienced motorcycle tourer. We immediately notice how much lighter his bike is packed.
 
We arrive just after a group of European motorcyclists at the border. We have to wait for their paperwork and stamps before we can proceed. Three hours later, we're through.
 
Then the dirt road. Hard-baked mud with sand here and there. But enjoyable to ride. I see De Witt and Ian are eager to go flat out, and I tell them to go ahead; I prefer to enjoy my own comfortable pace. The road winds along the Mauritania side of the Senegal River. Wetland as far as the eye can see. Cattle, sheep and donkeys. A camel!
 
I get so mesmerised that I completely miss the turnoff to Nouakchott. Heading straight for Rosso, the other border post, quite a way upstream along the river. After a while, something bothers me. No one is coming from the opposite direction? Earlier, there were many Europeans on big motorcycles. Kicking up dust.
 
I stop. Need to drink water anyway. It's 40 degrees Celsius, and the water isn't much cooler. Take out my phone. It rings. It's De Witt. Buddy, you missed the turn! He and Ian will find a tree (a rare phenomenon in this world) and wait in the shade for me. I turn around. Realize that the guys who were calling and shouting a while ago, weren't trying to stop me for money, but to tell me that I should have turned there.
 
De Witt feels bad for not waiting for me at the intersection. When he realised it and turned around, I had already gone past. I know it's my own fault for not studying the map myself. Leaving the thinking to him and Ian in comfortable dependency. A good wake-up call for me!
 
We lost about an hour, but the road to Nouakchott is beautiful. Occasionally a quick police stop where we have to give them a "FICHE": a small piece of paper with our passport and vehicle details. Red sand dunes on both sides of the road, rolling into the distance. Camels wandering freely. A dead one right here by the road. Sand villages that remind me of the ghost town Kolmanskop in Namibia.
 
We arrive in Nouakchott well before dark. Worried for nothing about the time. As Ian said last night: In Europe, people have money but no time. Also no time for each other. But here in Africa, people may not have money, but they have all the time in the world. For each other.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 61 en 62: Saint Louis
 
Die Senegalrivier sproei ons in 'n soutreën nat soos wat die boot wind-op deur die golwe gly. Pap sit agter by die roer en vertel ons van die rivier. Ek en De Witt sit voor. Ons het drie dae van laaglê in Saint Louis omdat ons Morocco-visums eers oor 'n week geldig is.
 
Die eeue-oue rivier, wat dit destyds moontlik gemaak het vir die Portugese en Franse om mense, ivoor en goud diep vanuit Afrika te laat uitbloei Europa toe, ontspring in Guinea en bring dan die oerwoud se reënwater deur Mali en al langs Mauritanië verby tot waar dit hier by Saint Louis uitmond. Saam met die reënwater ook skynbaar daardie hele geweste se plastieksakke, bottels, plakkies, dromme en visnet, want die oewers is 'n kors van plastiek.
 
Die dorpie is 'n eiland wat deur die riviermonding gevorm is, netjies ingepas tussen die rivier aan die een kant en die see aan die ander kant. Die monding is rof, veral as die wind waai. Volgens Pap slaan daar gereeld bote om en verdrink die bemanning.
 
Kyk na hierdie prentjie: Dis die pad al langs die rivier af in die rigting van die mond. Aan die linkerkant, vir omtrent 5km, lê die skuite kleurvol en in verskillende stadia van verblyking ingeryg langs mekaar op die oewer. Honderde van hulle. Tussen-in en bo-op die skuite 'n wemeling van mense en nette en bokke en donkies. Dit ruik na vis. En riool. Aan die regterkant van die pad 'n lang ry geboutjies deur die Portugese of die Franse gebou, meestal half vervalle, mense in en uit. Kaalvoetkinders oral. Na 'n ruk, aan die regterkant, hou die geboutjies op en begin die begraafplaas, wat ook vir 'n kilometer of drie aanhou. Dit voel ironies, die skuite en grafte wat so vir mekaar kyk oor die pad.
 
Teen skemeraand stap ek om fotos van die bote te neem. Wonder hoekom dit is dat fotos van verval - skeepswrakke, murasies, verslete skuite - so treffend is? Dalk die morbiede herinnering: Alles kom tot niks.
 
Die aand drink ons Mojito's. Ons jeuk om weer te ry. Dis moeilik om stil te sit as mens weet daar is lang stukke woestynwind en son wat voorlê. Dis nog omtrent 3000km se woestyn tot in Europa, en dan nog omtrent 3000km se winterpad tot in Rotterdam.
 
Môre die motorfietse vol petrol maak en pak sodat ons Saterdagoggend vroeg 'n goeie ent kan vorder tot in Mauritanië.
 
​
Day 61 and 62: Saint Louis
 
The Senegal River sprays us with a salty rain as the boat glides windward through the waves. Pap sits at the back, steering the boat, telling us about the river. De Witt and I sit at the front. We have three days to relax in Saint Louis because our Morocco visas are only valid in a week from now.
 
The centuries-old river, which once made it possible for the Portuguese and French to bleed people, ivory, and gold from deep within Africa to Europe, originates in Guinea. It then brings the equatorial rainwater through Mali, passing along Mauritania until it reaches its mouth here at Saint Louis. Along with the rainwater, apparently, comes the whole region's plastic bags, bottles, flip-flops, cans and fishing nets, as the banks are a crust of plastic.
 
The town is an island formed by the river mouth, neatly nestled between the river on one side and the sea on the other. The mouth is rough, especially when the wind is strong. According to Pap, fishing boats often capsize here and their crews drown.
 
Look at this picture: It's the road along the river towards the mouth. On the left side, for about 5km, the boats lie in various colours and stages of fading along the bank. Hundreds of them. In between and on top of the boats, a bustling scene of people, nets, goats, and donkeys. It smells like fish. And sewage. On the right side of the road, a long row of buildings built by the Portuguese or the French, mostly half-ruined, people in and out. Barefoot children everywhere. After a while, on the right side, the buildings stop, and the cemetery begins, extending for a kilometre or three. It feels ironic, the boats and graves looking at each other across the road.
 
At dusk, I walk to take pictures of the boats. I wonder why pictures of decay - shipwrecks, ruins, worn-out fishing boats - are so striking? Perhaps the morbid reminder that everything comes to nothing.
 
In the evening, we drink Mojitos. We itch to ride again. It's difficult to sit still when you know there are long stretches of desert wind and sun ahead. It's about 3000km of desert to Europe, and then about another 3000km of winter road to Rotterdam.
 
Tomorrow, we'll fill up the motorcycles with petrol and pack them so that we can leave early on Saturday morning to make good progress to Mauritania.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 60: Koualack na Mouit
 
Veertig grade Celcius op 'n motorfiets is wárm. Ons maak ons valhelms se venstertjies toe want die wind skroei ons gesigte. Ons baadjies, wat perfek was vir die drukkende ewenaarsweer omdat dit lug deurlaat, laat nou ook hierdie vuurwind deur. Dis skaars elfuur die oggend. Die motorfietse lê skuins teen die wind. As 'n vragmotor verbykom wat die wind vir 'n oomblik afkeer, skuif mens skielik links en regs oor die pad todat die fiets weer sy ewewig teen die wind vind.
 
Ons moet kophou. Hierdie is nog net die begin van ons woestynpad. Ons moet die wind en die hitte en die afstande en die niksheid tussenin nie onderskat nie. Ons roetine dalk só aanpas dat ons teen dagbreek kan ry en soveel afstand as moontlik inkry voor dit te warm word en die wind te veel begin optel.
 
Ons ry 'n dorp binne. Wat 'n ervaring! Die woestynsand lê in dik stroke aan weerskante en soms sommer bo-oor die pad. Die pad reg deur die middedorp se gedruis van donkiekarre en motorfietsies en mense, is ook die pad waarlangs die hooftoevoer van vragmotors na die binneland loop. Dis 'n gedruk en stoot in die versengende wit warmte. 'n Motorfietsie ry in De Witt se kantsak vas, steier effens, maar val darem nie om nie.
 
By 'n petrolstasie buite die dorp stop ons vir koeldrank. 'n Soldaat kom van oorkant die pad aangestap. Verstom om te hoor van ons reis en wil alles uitvind oor die motorfietse. Hoe vinnig kan hulle ry? Hoeveel dae ry ons al? Roep sy makker nader, vertaal alles wat ons vertel aan hom in Frans oor. Bon voyage, wens hulle ons toe.
 
Later, ná 'n bietjie diksand-slinger op 'n klein enkelspoor-agterpaadjie kom ons by ons slaapplek aan. Dis 'n ou Franse villa wat in 'n gastehuis omskep is. Ons deel die plek met 'n kameraspan en 'n glanspersoon wat van alle kante afgeneem word. Die kameras moet mooi mik om nie per ongeluk die twee wit ouens met die wilde grys baarde in die agtergrond in te kry nie.
 
Dan nuus vanaf GPS4Africa: Hulle sal vir ons 'n nuwe Cardo-interkomeenheid laat aflewer sodra ons in Spanje ingaan. Ongelukkig is daar nie winkels in Noord-Afrika wat dit verkoop nie, en om dit per courier te stuur gaan weke vat om deur doane te gaan. Ons het ook intussen besluit om ons reis tot in Rotterdam te verleng omdat die verskeping van die motorfietse ordegroottes goedkoper van daar af is as vanaf Spanje. So ten minste sal ons in Europa weer met mekaar kan praat terwyl ons ry.
 
Die einde is in sig, maar die Sahara lê nog voor.
 
 
Day 60: Koualack to Mouit
 
Forty degrees Celsius on a motorcycle is hot. We close the visors on our helmets because the wind scorches our faces. Our mesh jackets, perfect for the humid equatorial weather, now lets this fiery wind through. It's barely eleven in the morning. The motorcycles skew against the wind. When a truck passes and blocks the wind for a moment, the bikes drift left and right across the road until they regain their balance against the wind.
 
We have to keep our wits together. This is just the beginning of our desert path. We mustn't underestimate the wind, the heat, the distances, and the emptiness in-between. Perhaps adjust our routine so that we can ride at dawn and cover as much distance as possible before it gets too hot and the wind picks up too much.
 
We enter a village. What an experience! The desert sand thick on both sides of the road. Sometimes completely over it. The road through the middle of the town's hustle and bustle of donkey carts, motorcycles and people is also the road along which the main supply of trucks to the interior runs. It's a crowded pushing and shoving in the scorching white heat. A small motorcycle hits De Witt's pannier bag, wobbles slightly, but thankfully doesn't fall.
 
At a gas station outside town, we stop for a cold drink. A soldier comes walking from across the road. Amazed to hear about our journey. Wants to know everything about the motorcycles. How fast can they go? How many days have we been riding? He calls his buddy over, translates everything we tell him into French. Bon voyage, they wish us.
 
Later, after a bit of deep sand wiggling on a small single-track back road, we arrive at our accommodation for the night. It's an old French villa converted into a guesthouse. We share the place with a camera crew and a celebrity being photographed from all angles. The cameras have to aim carefully not to accidentally capture the two white guys with the wild grey beards in the background.
 
Then news from GPS4Africa: They will have a new Cardo intercom unit delivered as soon as we enter Spain. Unfortunately, there are no stores in North Africa that sell it, and sending it by courier will take weeks to clear customs. In the meantime, we have also decided to extend our journey to Rotterdam because shipping the motorcycles from there is significantly cheaper than from Spain. At least in Europe we'll be able to talk to each other again while riding.
 
The end is in sight, but the Sahara still lies ahead.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 59: Tambacounda na Koualack
 
Ons vat-vat aan die soom van die Sahara woestyn. Die pad is só reguit en mooi geteer dit voel amper soos kroekpad op 'n reis soos hierdie. Die stereotipe wil mos hê dat alles swaar en moeilik moet wees in Afrika. Die veld lyk soos Noord-Kaap Kalahari-veld. En die donkie-karre, soos ons laas in Namibië gesien het, laat dit nóg meer voel soos 'n wêreld wat ons ken.
 
Teen 12:00 is dit 38 grade Celcius, en toe ons die dorpsverkeer in kruip 'n rukkie later, is die lesing 42 grade. Woestynsand wat die pad wil-wil wegsteek. Ons besef dat 'n nuwe hoofstuk in ons reis aangebreek het, en dat ons onsself sal moet voorberei. Ekstra water moet saamdra en gereeld moet stop om dit te drink ook.
 
Ons stop vir petrol. 'n Seuntjie met slegs die olierige oorblyfsel van 'n oorgroot hempie aan, kom staan bakhand. Prewel iets. Dan nog een. En nog een. Later 'n groepie van ses of sewe. Die oudste een moet so 12 wees, die jongste een 5 of 6. 'n Skraal man met 'n besem kom verjaag hulle, maar sodra hy weg is skuif hulle weer suutjies nader.
 
Die hotel waar ons wou slaap is vol, maar ons kan in hulle susters-hotel in die straat af slaap, en steeds in hulle swembad kom swem. Ons gesels oor die indruk wat hierdie reis op ons maak, en die implikasies vir ons onderskeie paaie vorentoe.
 
Later, net voor aandete, ontmoet ons 'n groepie Amerikaanse soldate wat in dieselfde hotel as ons slaap. Bloedjonk. Hulle is hier om opleiding aan die Senegalese magte te bied. Op die TV in die eetsaal praat nuusmense in Frans oor die situasie in Gaza. Tonele van die wit stof van verwoesting.
 
 
Day 59: Tambacounda to Koualack
 
We are touching at the seam of the Sahara desert. The road is so straight and perfectly tarred it almost feels like cheating on a trip like this. You know, the stereotype wants everything to be hard and difficult in Africa. The vegetation around us looks like the Northern Cape Kalahari. And the donkey carts, which we last saw in Namibia, make it feel even more like a world we know.
 
By 12:00 it is 38 degrees Celcius, and by the time we crawl into mid-town traffic, the reading is 42 degrees. Desert sand that wants to cover the road. We realize that a new chapter in our journey has arrived, and that we will have to prepare ourselves. Carry extra water and stop frequently to drink it too.
 
We stop for petrol. A boy, wearing only the greasy remains of an oversized shirt, appears. Holds out his cupped hands. Mumbles something. Then another one. And one more. Later a group of six or seven. The oldest one must be about 12, the youngest about 5 or 6. A slender man with a broom comes and chases them away, but as soon as he's gone they slowly move closer again.
 
The hotel where we wanted to sleep is fully booked, but we can sleep in their sister hotel down the street, and still come and swim in their pool. We talk about the impression this trip is making on us, and the implications for our respective paths forward.
 
Later, just before dinner, we meet a group of American soldiers sleeping in the same hotel as us. Very young. They are here to provide training to the Senegalese forces. On the TV in the dining room, news people talk in French about the situation in Gaza. Scenes of the white dust of devastation.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 58: Koundara na Tambacounda, Senegal
 
Ons staan vroeg op. Sluk 'n paar neute en water af vir ontbyt. Pak die fietse. Ry. Gretig om van hierdie grillerige plek waar ons gebly het weg te kom. En nuuskierig om Senegal te sien.
 
Dit word duidelik al later lig soos wat ons verder Noord beweeg. En die plantegroei is nou heeltemal bosveld - voel of ons in die noordelike deel van die Kruger Wildtuin ry.
 
Ons word uit Guinea uitgestempel sonder te veel drama. Dan 'n stuk of twintig kilometer niemandsland tot by die Senegal grenspos. Geteerde reguitpad. Geen vragmotors, stof, motorfietsies of taxis nie. Rondom ons slegs die bosveld. Ons maak die fietse oop tot op 100km/h.
 
Bosbokkie! Skrik reg op my af. Ek's te vinnig om te rem. Gee vet! Hy tref my een kantsak, die fiets se gat gee twee, drie swaaie links en regs en trek dan weer reguit. Skok en adrenalien. De Witt is voor my, en ons interkoms werk nie, so hy is salig onbewus. Ek sien in my truspieel die bokkie wegdartel die veld in. As hy my voorwiel, of selfs net effens voller langs die kant getref het, was ek op die teer.
 
By die Senegal grens gaan dit vlot totdat een diknek doeane-beampte ons probeer wysmaak dat ons ekstra versekering nodig het. Is dit spesiale versekering net vir Senegal, vra ons? Nee vir die hele Wes- en Sentraal Afrika-streek, sê hy. Hoekom het nie een van die ander lande waardeur ons is dit dan vereis nie? Skaakmat. Hy laat ons deurgaan.
 
Die Islam geloof is opmerklik oorheersend hier. Die mense dra lang eenstuk-rokke in helder pienk en oranje en blou en elke ander kleur van die reenboog. Dit vrolik die droë, wit middaghitte op. Hier en daar 'n slagter wat vleis bewerk op 'n tafel net so langs die pad.
 
Ons stop by 'n petrolstasie om koeldrank te koop. Die winkeltjie het voorrade wat ons lanklaas gesien het. Koffie, toiletware, yoghurt. Graankos! Bekende handelsmerke. Die sieletroosting wat dit bring verbaas my. Weereens.
 
Vanaand, vir die eerste keer in baie dae, slaap ons by 'n plek met lopende water, 'n stort en 'n toilet met 'n sitplek op. 'n Swembad! Luukshede wat vir miljoene mense totaal onbeskore is, maar waarsonder ons nie vir 'n week of twee kan gaan sonder om onsself te begin jammerkry nie.
 
Buite, in die parkeerterrein, kom 'n skraal dogtertjie, seker so tien of elf jaar oud, van die straat af ingestap met 'n 20-liter plastiekkan. Maak dit vol water by 'n kraan agter in die hoek van die hotel se stoorruimte. Sukkel skeef-skeef met die vol kan weer uit straat toe. Water vir vanaand.
 
Day 58: Koundara to Tambacounda, Senegal
 
We rise early. Swallow a few nuts and water for breakfast. Pack the bikes. Ride off. Eager to leave this filthy place where we stayed. Curious to see Senegal.
 
The mornings stay darker for longer the further we move north. The vegetation is now entirely bushveld - it feels like we are riding in the northern part of the Kruger National Park.
We are stamped out of Guinea without much drama. Then about twenty kilometers of no-man's-land to the Senegal border post. A straight paved road. No trucks, dust, motorcycles, or taxis. Around us, only the bushveld. We open up the bikes to 100 km/h.
 
Bushbuck! It startles and jumps right at me. I'm going too fast to brake. Open throttle! It hits me on my pannier bag, the bike's rear swings two or three times left and right, then straightens again. Shock and adrenaline. De Witt is in front of me, but our intercom isn't working, so he is blissfully unaware. In my rear-view mirror, I see the bushbuck darting into the field. If it had hit my front wheel, or even just slightly more to the centre of the bike, I would have been on the tarmac.
 
At the Senegal border, everything goes smoothly until a self-important customs officer tries to convince us that we need extra insurance. Is it special insurance just for Senegal, we ask? No, for the entire West and Central Africa region, he says. Why didn't any of the other countries we passed through require it? Checkmate. He lets us pass.
 
The Islamic faith is notably dominant here. People wear long one-piece dresses in bright pink, orange, blue, and every other colour of the rainbow. It brightens the dry, white afternoon heat. Here and there, a butcher working meat on a table right next to the road.
 
We stop at a gas station to buy cooldrink. The little shop has supplies that we haven't seen in a long time. Coffee, toiletries, yogurt. Cereal! The comfort it brings surprises me. Again.
 
Tonight, for the first time in many days, we sleep at a place with running water, a shower, and a toilet with a seat. A swimming pool! Luxuries that are completely inaccessible for millions of people, but without which we cannot go for a week or two without starting to feel sorry for ourselves.
 
Outside, in the parking lot, a skinny girl, probably ten or eleven years old, walks in from the street with a 20-liter plastic can. She fills it with water from a tap behind the hotel's storage room. Struggles with the full can back to the street. Water for tonight.